


Seven Stars

by vvxw



Category: Sanditon (2019), Sanditon - Jane Austen
Genre: Arguing, F/M, Lost!Charlotte, Lots of Arguing, Protective!Sidney
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 09:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20757878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vvxw/pseuds/vvxw
Summary: Post 1x05: Charlotte sets off for London thinking she's got a lead. What happens when things don't go to plan, and then she runs into the very last person she'd hope to see?





	Seven Stars

Six shillings to get to London. Six shillings there and then, once she had Georgiana safe and sound in her company, six shillings back. She could afford that, for the time being.

Of course, that did not factor in food cost, and she had been loath to sneak anything from the Parkers’ kitchen. After all, they had done quite enough, and her heading off to find Georgiana alone, with just a note to ease anxieties, was hardly a proper way to repay them for their generosity. So she would do what she had to do to get to London and back on 12 shillings alone. In times like this, as she watched the coastal brush turn pastoral and then into densely packed neighborhoods, Charlotte wished she had some sort of marketable talent she could fall back on to earn her some money. But alas, she did not sing, nor could she play the piano. Her hunting skills were decent, but a fat lot of good that did her in the middle of a city, with no weapon to speak of.

She vaguely hoped that she could rely on the kindness of strangers to see her through, though a rather gruff voice in the back of her head warned her against such naivete. Her demeanor darkened with the day as the carriage approached its destination, and Charlotte realized she had no idea where to begin looking for Georgiana. Perhaps the best place to begin would be the address she had been using for Otis—Seven Stars, Honey Lane—where was Honey Lane? Charlotte was hardly familiar enough with London to know the location of an arbitrary street offhand like that.

The carriage slowed to a stop in front of a rather rough inn, and Charlotte figured this was as good a place as any to ask around. The innkeeper was an older man, round in the middle with very little hair on his head. He was very pink in the face and seemed to be covered in a considerable sheen of sweat. When Charlotte entered and greeted him, he hardly acknowledged her.

“Beg pardon,” Charlotte tried, watching as the man scribbled in his expense book. There was no one else in the room. “I was wondering if you could help me find Honey Lane.”

“You’re a ways out, miss,” the innkeeper said without looking up from his book. “Bit of a tramp down this way,” he gestured behind him, "then make a right on Cheapside. Honey Lane’ll be back there a ways. Can’t miss.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte said, feeling her polite smile falter. “That’s very helpful.”

As she began her trek toward Honey Lane, she felt the eyes of several men linger on her. Charlotte suddenly became keenly aware of the late hour, and wondered how long of a walk this may be, and whether there would be somewhere safe for her to spend the night. Once she turned onto Cheapside, feeling that she must be getting close, she ran headlong into something solid.

“Oof—wotchit there, luv,” the something exclaimed, and Charlotte saw it was a squat man. He, like the innkeeper, seemed to be sweating all over, despite a distinct lack of physical exertion. Charlotte absently wondered if this were a normal phenomenon in cities.

“Pardon me,” she said, righting herself on the walk and smoothing her dress. The man’s eyes followed the movement of her hands, lingering over her hips. Charlotte felt her face flame under his unseemly stare.

“Lost, are ye?” He said, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.

“Oh, not exactly,” Charlotte lied. She wished she were better at this, like Georgiana. “I’m actually calling on a friend down this way.” The man loosed a bellowing laugh.

“Ooh, a friend you say? What kind of friend could this be?” He said, tilting his head forward and raising his eyebrows. “Sounds like a lucky one.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Charlotte said, feeling her face burn even more, “I must be going.”

She hurried past him, praying he wouldn’t follow. Charlotte could hear him hurling innuendos at her as she quickened her pace down the street. She was practically running when she saw the street sign for Honey Lane and took the corner at a sharp turn. Fortune was not with her. Whether the uneven cobblestones or the fact that she was putting haste over care, her foot caught and sent her down to one knee, palms scraping cruelly against the stones.

It took Charlotte a moment to collect herself before continuing down the street. She slowly raised herself, inspecting her knee, which fortunately had not sustained such a bad blow, and her dress, which had only the smallest and subtlest of tears around the knee area. Quite unfortunately, her hands had not escaped unscathed. She cursed herself for not keeping her gloves on, as they may have protected her hands from getting scraped. They were bleeding lightly, and though it was getting darker by the second, Charlotte could tell there was dirt in the wounds that would need cleaning out before she could dress them. Biting her lip to keep the tears from coming, Charlotte pressed on.

Seven Stars was a stranger address than she’d ever heard, but she hoped she’d be reunited with Georgiana momentarily and they could return to Sanditon together, this whole ordeal just a bad memory. As she looked carefully at each building on the street, however, the pit in Charlotte’s stomach grew larger. These storefronts were all numbered conventionally, which meant— There, she saw it.

The Seven Stars, a _pub_. How could she have been so stupid. She had come all the way to London on a whim and was trapped in a strange city with no friends and no money and not a single clue as to where Georgiana had gone. Charlotte limped into the pub, where she could again feel the appraising glares of practically every customer. Her eyes stung with tears, and she knew it was only a matter of time before she lost her composure entirely.

“Miss Heywood?” She heard a familiar voice, deep and gravelly from years of smoking. It could not be. It just could not.

Surely, when she turned to see who had called her, it would not be Sidney Parker, the very last person she would expect to see here, at the address that had been receiving her letters to Mr. Molyneux. The notion was quite impossible. As it turned out, the notion was not impossible enough. Charlotte turned to the back of the pub and saw him, Mr. Parker, hunched over a table, with papers and an untouched plate of food surrounding him. His eyebrows were drawn together in what could have been either confusion or irritation at seeing her here of all places. Moreover, her stomach fell, sensing the tongue-lashing he was likely to give her on top of everything she had already been through.

When Charlotte said nothing by way of greeting, Mr. Parker stood and, likely reading the panic on her face, stepped out from the table, moving toward her.

“What is it?” He asked, searching her face. Charlotte looked down at her hands and, following her movement, Mr. Parker grasped her wrists.

“Christ, Charlotte,” he gasped, as Charlotte’s tears started. Mr. Parker guided her to the table, sitting her down before running to grab a fresh towel and some water from the barkeep. Kneeling in front of her, Mr. Parker gently pressed the damp cloth into each of her palms in turn, wiping away the dirt, debris and dried blood.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” He asked quietly. He looked up into her face again, tear-streaked as it had become.

“I fell,” she said, quite lamely. “I was running from a man—”

“A man? What man?” Mr. Parker’s face hardened, jaw set, and his hand holding the damp cloth ceased its caresses.

“He was a stranger,” Charlotte said, fresh tears welling in her eyes. “He was saying some awful things to me and I just wanted to get away.”

“Did he touch you?” Mr. Parker said, and this time Charlotte felt the hand not holding the towel tighten around her fingers. She shook her head no, and Mr. Parker looked away, exhaling. Charlotte watched a muscle work in his jaw for a good minute.

“Are you alright?” He said finally. Charlotte found she could not look away from him as she nodded her head affirmative.

“I’ve got a room across the street,” Mr. Parker said, straightening up. “If you consent, I’d like for you to tell me everything. You can rest there too, if you’d like.”

Charlotte felt her breathing settle as she absorbed his words. Her tongue-lashing was yet to come, it seemed.

“That sounds…agreeable,” she said, for want of a more fitting word. Mr. Parker settled his account at the Seven Stars and they made their way across the street together. Charlotte did not miss how closely he stayed to her, and she was grateful for the company, even though the walk was quite short. He smelled like tobacco and velvet, which she thought very fitting for Sidney Parker. After all, he was a man with a taste for the finer things.

Upon entering the inn, no one batted an eye at them. Charlotte wondered if anyone supposed they were married, or else assumed she was some woman of the night that the infamous Sidney Parker had taken to bed. Maybe they just didn’t care to speculate at all. Whichever way, Charlotte was grateful that for once, every eye in the place didn’t turn to focus on her. Mr. Parker escorted her straight upstairs, hand gripping her upper arm quite sharply by the time they reached the room. He immediately tended to the fire, while Charlotte sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for him to speak. Finally, she couldn’t stand the silence.

“I didn’t know it was a bar,” she said quietly. She realized it was a poor excuse, but it was the only one she had. Perhaps he would see how desperate she was to recover Georgiana and quell his anger with her. “I thought it was a residential address.”

“Well, you were incorrect. And I can’t believe you came all the way to London, unaccompanied mind you, on a whim,” Mr. Parker said. His voice was low and steady, and he was still facing the fire.

“I assumed that they would be there, and if they weren’t, there would be some clue as to where they had gone,” Charlotte protested.

“Yet predictably, you assumed incorrectly, and now we are no closer to finding Georgiana, and you’ve nearly gotten yourself killed in the process,” he said, turning his head and staring at the floor, so that she could see the startling profile of his face against the fire. _How apt_, she thought.

“Well if it was such a terrible guess, then why were you there? How did you even know about the Seven Stars?” Charlotte asked. Mr. Parker whirled around to face her.

“You think I didn’t know this was the address where Mr. Molyneux had been receiving his mail?” Mr. Parker demanded. “Miss Heywood, I needn’t remind you of my habit of _galivanting around London._” Charlotte’s face reddened.

“Then it looks like we drew the same conclusion, Mr. Parker,” she said in a measured tone. His eyes were dark as he gazed back at her, challenging.

“The fact remains that if you hadn’t been so keen to prove yourself in bloody cricket—”

“It is completely unfair for you to put the majority of the blame on me when _you_ are the one—”

“—not a single woman in that whole parish seems to have a lick of sense—”

“—got to be the most disagreeable, the most unlikeable person I have ever—”

“—can’t believe anyone could be so _interfering_—”

“—don’t take any of your guardianship duties seriously—"

“ENOUGH,” Mr. Parker bellowed. Charlotte stared hard at him again. His nose was perhaps an inch from hers, and if she weren’t so angry, she would likely be panicking about such close proximity to such an attractive man.

But Charlotte was angry. Oh, was she angry.

“It’s clear we are not going to get along,” Mr. Parker said, maintaining their distance. “But we share a common goal, and I know you are not completely incapable.” Charlotte could have screamed.

“Nor are you,” she conceded with a sneer. That set him off again.

“You are out of order, Miss Heywood,” he said.

“I don’t care, and nor should you!” Charlotte bellowed. “None of this would have happened if people like you weren’t so set on maintaining archaic social customs and insisting on marriage being a business contract instead of an expression of love.” Mr. Parker let out a low cruel laugh.

“Don’t be naïve,” he said. “What sort of future do you imagine for the likes of Georgiana and Mr. Molyneux? It would be like you matching with…with young Mr. Stringer.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. She opened it again, but wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve considered it,” Mr. Parker said, that cruel laugh bubbling up again.

“Pray tell, what would be the problem with a match like that?” Charlotte challenged. Mr. Parker laughed outright. She could have hit him. “Mr. Stringer is decent, kind and hard working. He has ambition and talent, unlike many men I know.”

“He’s a laborer, and he has no formal education to speak of,” Mr. Parker said.

“And so? He’s very sweet to me,” Charlotte said. Mr. Parker’s laugh died.

“Is that what you want? Someone to be _sweet_ to you?” he said. His tone was mocking, but his face was earnest. Again, Charlotte was unsure what she should say.

“No,” she said finally, as quiet as she dared. “I want someone to respect me.”

Mr. Parker looked hard at her, and they were quiet for a long time. Despite the roaring fire, Charlotte felt ice cold at the direction the conversation turned. Mr. Parker seemed to be struggling with something internally, as he kept leaning towards her, then away, then reaching a hand up and putting it back, eyes searching hers all the while. Then his resolve stiffened—he moved his hand up to cradle her cheek and placed a chaste kiss on her lips.

Where Charlotte had once felt cold she was now burning, as she wrapped her scraped hands around his neck. That was the assent Sidney had been waiting for. He closed the distance between them again, this time taking full advantage of her permission with a languid kiss. Charlotte had never kissed anyone before, but she felt like she could do it forever. Sidney’s hand was still cupping her face, while the other ran dizzying little circles up and down her back. She allowed her fingers to crawl up the nape of his neck and through his dark locks, eliciting a low, guttural moan from Sidney.

After what may very well have been years spent there before the fire, their lips parted, and they moved back to survey each other. Charlotte was pleased to see Sidney’s lips were swollen and bright, angry pink, and he was breathing heavily. She was sure her appearance was similarly disheveled but seeing his hair sticking up at odd angles and that fiery darkness in his eyes made her want to kiss him all over again.

“This is unseemly,” Sidney said, his eyes never leaving Charlotte’s lips.

“Yes, it is,” she said.

“We cannot continue this behavior,” he continued. Charlotte observed him—was he really going to throw her social status in her face after kissing her senseless? It made her angry all over again.

“No, of course, the distinguished Sidney Parker would never deign to fraternize beneath his station,” she said, more than a hint of venom in her voice.

“Charlotte,” he said, with a note of pleading. “You know who I am. You know what’s expected of me.”

“Yes, and expected by whom, exactly? No one who actually cares about you gives a fig, but you’re still on about social graces.”

“Char—”

“I beg your pardon, but I do not want to hear it,” she said, exasperated. “Honestly, Mr. Parker, I was not asking you to marry me or anything of the sort. You don’t have to worry.”

Sidney’s eyes were searching hers again, this time for something else—what more could he possibly want from her? She hadn’t even realized he was holding onto her wrists until she removed them from his grasp.

“I’m going to go for a cordial,” Charlotte said, moving to the door. That seemed to jolt Sidney into action.

“Charlotte, wait,” he said, moving in front of her again. She gave him a look, and he seemed to decide against whatever it was he had been planning on saying because he moved out of her way.

As she sat down at the pub, she was aware again of the eyes on her. She wondered if it was something she would just have to get used to in London. She sipped on her cordial, thinking again of Sidney. He really was confounding. At once thrilling and infuriating, she couldn’t tell if he hated her or if he was fond of her. It seemed his opinions of her changed with the weather, and likewise, she found herself reexamining her feelings about him with every passing day.

A thought nagged at her as she sat: _But do you respect him, and he you_? It wasn’t a question without merit. He had done much to win her respect, and much to lose it. She expected she was in a similar position in his eyes. She certainly couldn’t blame him for being upset about Georgiana. Perhaps they were simply meant to be turbulent—two people, a touch incompatible (or maybe too compatible?) in some compromising situations.

All Charlotte knew was that, going forward, she would try harder to earn his respect, and she hoped he would try harder to earn hers.


End file.
